


A Nerve

by th_esaurus



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dark, Drabble Collection, F/M, Femdom, Gross, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:58:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: “Is this what you want?” he begged her.





	1. touch

She had agreed to be beside him, not below him; it did not occur to Rey to be pliant.

*

Jakku was a trading hub, a junkyard, an approximation of civilisation for travellers who had spent long years alone. Rey was not a fool. She knew what lonesome creatures needed: to be watered, and fed, and bedded, swiftly, without particular emotion. There was always chatter around the markets and workstations, gaggles of gossiping scavengers laughing about spread legs, diseases, ill-matched species and unwanted blessings.

Rey had no real frame of context for this kind of talk. She lived apart from the messy hubs, and the staff strapped to her back fended off most sidelong glances.

She knew, of course, how to please herself. Knew what the wetness between her legs smelled of, knew it felt best with the middle two fingers of her right hand inside her, her thumb bruising her most fragile part, just above where she was split. Some nights, when she was inside herself, it felt as though her pleasure was doubled, fed back upon itself, an echo where she did not know if she was the source, or if she were only a call-back; a mirror.

That was Ben, she knew by now. The thought warmed her.

*

“Come to bed with me,” he murmured desperately against her neck.

*

She knew how to please herself, so why should pleasing a man be any different?

*

Ben was wide all over, his shoulders, his chest, his waist; his face. She settled easily between his pale thighs. She liked that he trembled: not fear, she could tell, though he was in some regard afraid of her, but the effort of holding himself back. He was a violent boy - not forced to be, like she was, a necessity to survive, but simply because he had not learned otherwise. The thick muscles in his legs shuddered as she grazed them with the palms of her hands. He wanted, she sensed, to crush her; if only to feel how fitfully he would mourn her after the deed was done.

Rey smiled to herself.

She shifted back a little, so that she could see between his legs. She was curious about his prick, as hard and wide as the rest of him, the same vicious red that piqued his cheeks when he could not control his emotions. She touched it, not tentatively, and liked the way his breath hitched, faltered, and stopped altogether for a moment. She could not see as clearly as she wanted to, and hefted his heavy thighs up until his knees rested on her shoulders.

“You’re such a strong thing,” he managed.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” she replied.

She wanted to see where his body opened up, like hers did. Wanted to see the part of him where she could clamber inside, if she tried hard enough.

It was not like hers at all, dry and further back. Frowning, she sucked on her fingers to wet them. He struggled to hold his head up and watch her, breathing only through his mouth now, his pink lips thick and shining with spit as he licked them too many times.

Rey leant down, and let a spool of her spit dribble down from her mouth, between Ben’s splayed legs. He let out a noise she couldn’t parse, a keening sound, a quaint thing. And then she braced herself against his thigh and pressed her two fingertips against him.

“Is this what you want?” he begged her.

She could not slide into him as smoothly as with herself, though the angle was far easier. It took some effort.

“Isn’t it what you want?” she asked, feeling him swallow, reluctantly, her second knuckle.

“I want what you want of me,” he breathed out, and let his head drop back, his chest heaving.

His wide chest, heaving, as she fucked into him, curious and firm. What else could he have needed from her, Rey thought, when he had asked for her in his bed?

*

She’d been surprised, when he came. Unnecessarily messy, she thought, but he had cleaned himself up while she watched.

“I like you like this,” she said, stroking his sweat-flecked hair after they were done.

His hands shook like he wanted to clench them around her small neck. She kissed his knuckles.

Still, they shook regardless.

*

Neither of them could be called–

Pliant–


	2. sleep

She dreamt of Han Solo: his warm eyes, his lopsided smile, and the cauterised wound in his belly.

He fell.

She–

She fell.

*

“How many people have you killed?” she asked Ben quietly. His hands did not still on her bare back, and he did not hesitate in his answer.

“Four, at the temple,” he said. “Too many to remember after.”

His father, then, was nothing special.

She buried her mouth and nose against his neck, and he curled his arm around her, tender.

“And you?” he asked.

She thought a while. “One,” she said, eventually. “One for sure.”

“Tell me.”

She did not untangle herself from him, and made him strain to hear her mumble against his skin. But she was comfortable. “A raider, I think. An opportunist. I hadn’t taken my haul to market yet, and he ambushed me in the night. Must’ve watched me drag it all home. It was messy. I only had my staff. There was too much blood to clean up, and it soaked into the sand. So I moved on after that. Made a new home.”

“Did you regret it?”

She knew, by his asking, that he had his own regrets.

She shrugged. “I was surviving.”

“For what?”

Another shrug, slower. “For my parents. For me.”

For you, he wanted her to say; she guessed as much. She didn’t say it. She had no inkling of him back then.

“Would you kill again, if you had to?”

“I suppose,” she sighed.

He might have carried on asking questions of her - he did that often, interrupted her conversations, turned them about so - but she stalled him. Slid down his body, and braced her hands on his thighs, and took his cock into her mouth.

He always made such an undignified sound.

*

She dreamt of Ben Solo. Of pulling her saber out of the same cauterised wound beneath his ribcage. The pitiful noise he’d make.

He would fall.

And she would watch him go.


	3. breathe

Before Ben, nobody had tried to teach her. Jakku taught her nothing, not how to fight, to hunt, to fuck, to survive. Rey had learnt these things well enough for herself.

*

His fingers spread on her bare belly, then he clenched them, at just the tip, pushing him palm into her firm skin. “Like this,” he murmured, his breath warm against her neck. She shifted in his lap, bracing her back against his chest, her arm outstretched, a drop of sweat rolling along her left brow, slow as an itch.

She could mimic the grip of his hand perfectly, but all the Force would do was push or pull. The hollow, decommissioned MSE-6 Ben had brought her for practise scraped back and forth along the floor in front of Ben’s low bed, but would not crumple. The Force seemed–spry, mocking her efforts.“It won’t listen,” she said, frustrated.

He too let out a low growl. “You’re not trying.”

“There is no  _try_ ,” she snapped back; something Luke had said to her.

Ben recognised the cadence, clearly; that angry moue again. He hated to be reminded of the time she had spent with Skywalker.

“ _Clench_ ,” he told her. “Like a muscle.” He squeezed his hand again, harder, on her belly, and then, after just an infinitesimal hesitation, further up, his whole palm covering her breast.

She elbowed him lightly, her annoyance piqued. “It’s not a muscle. It’s not something inside of me. I know how to grip but my staff never  _gave_  like this is s’posed to.”

Ben had no patience. It was a fault they both shared. He turned her, not gently, let her settle her legs around his waist and took her wrists in his hands. He held them between their bodies, a few inches apart.

“Someone else’s muscle, then,” he snapped.

And he pulled her hands up to his neck.

“Clench,” he told her again. She needed the context, they both knew it; to feel it with her hands so she could feel it in the Force. And so, with a tiny frown, she pressed down.

His neck was firm under her palms. Rey could feel the blood gushing through his body, echoing the pulse in her thumbs and the heels of her hands. She underestimated how much force it would take to make a real difference, and after a moment, squeezed harder. She felt the effort in her forearms and shoulders, leaning into it. That was it. This was it; she raised up a little on her thighs, rocking against him, her whole weight a burden on his neck. More and more he seemed fragile. She could break him, she thought, if she tried hard enough. Could squeeze and squeeze until his skin frayed and split, and his muscles and nerves slumped between her palms, a bloodied mess. If she could do it with her hands, she decided, then she could do it with the Force.

He was choking. Rey realised that a little belatedly. He had not been able to breathe for some fifteen seconds or more.

Still, he had not pushed her off.

He was becoming erect, below her.

She should let go, Rey thought.

She thought about it a few seconds more. And then she eased back, letting him slouch against her at once, heaving ragged breaths from the hot air between them. “I have it now,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair.

“Show me,” he said, shakily, when he could speak again.

Rey turned, put out her hand, reached into the Force, and decimated the hollow little droid. It was simple. How hadn’t she managed it before? Stupid.

“No,” Ben said, low. He nudged her with his forehead, needing her attention. He bared his neck to her, pale and freckled and scarred; marred, now, with the angry imprint of her fingers. She could not help but touch him there again, a gentle echo. “ _Show_  me.”

“Oh,” Rey murmured.


End file.
